


So desperately yours

by ClaireMorgan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, If you love yourself some romantic shit you got it here, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other, Poet Crowley (Good Omens), Service Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), ineffable husbands, some soft smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 20:53:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20103463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaireMorgan/pseuds/ClaireMorgan
Summary: It was slow and intoxicating and gentle but oh so desperate, because there was no one in the universe who had waited so long, who knew how longing, true longing, felt. For everyone else, it was ineffable.Inspired by a tumblr post (which isn't mine), in which Aziraphale's favourite poet also happens to be his favourite person. Only, he doesn't know it yet. And Crowley doesn't really want him to find out. Or does he?





	So desperately yours

_Blood and fire under my hands_  
_ It’s been here for so long but only now I start to feel_

_I never say what I think though you always think what I think and I know why_  
_ But you can’t see everything and I can’t let you see me all_  
_ I wish you could take me nonetheless_

_And no matter what I say only listen to my eyes_  
_ Didn’t you see their colour change when you spoke my name_  
_ Every time_  
_ And I conveniently hide_

_There is no one but you_  
_ Sometimes I forget there are others_  
_ Sometimes I look around and you’re not there and I keep wondering why_

_You never said anything_  
_ And how can I dare break the spell_  
_ What if it would then all go away_

_And wanting things I shouldn’t, and wanting things I can’t have_  
_ All so human of me_

All so human of me to feel all of those things, thought Aziraphale, as he held desperately onto his book. This was a rare edition, and he had only recently got hold of it; again, since he used to have it more than a century ago, and lost it abroad. He used to carry it everywhere, learned every word. But he now kept it safely indoors, always only read it in the dim light of his very own bookshop. It was the very true expression of love, he believed. This man, this person, had captured some sort of essence; it made the angel yearn to be him. Or to know him.

Poetry sometimes had a way to hide the truth under ramifications of words and verses, rather than exposing it, coarse and raw. But not in that case, for this poet had an almost foresight into people’s minds, Aziraphale thought, he could read humans like maps and reveal the best and the worst. When he read them, the poems, the angel got so lost in the meaning of it all that he sometimes forgot he was not human. That this wasn't about him, or for him. He wanted so much to be fooled that he played along.

He liked the smell of the pages, the fragile sound they made when he pressed his palm on their surface roughed by time, and the cursive letters, traced with such a heavy, troubled hand, the ink so sank in the paper that you could see the words, upside down like some enigma, on the other side. It was as if every part of him was trying to merge; and it was a physical reaction, almost intrinsic, from some bare, basic instinct; with the reality down on paper, which was for Aziraphale as real as the world around him, only the thoughts of a different time, the illusions of a lost but so lucid man, that knew so much more than him, it seemed. Though it also seemed to be exactly him, like some things right out of his own mind. Like a mirror. Like looking out the window, through the mist.

Unknown despite all of Aziraphale’s efforts to put him in the spotlight, the mysterious figure behind his dreams had left only a handful of words, with two letters at the bottom of every page: A.J. And all of this, even if it dated back from the 19th century, smelled rather modern. This was one of the things Aziraphale loved about it, about all of it. It was timeless, though it seemed to describe such a precise moment. Some crisp and addictive feeling; the fall into the depths which raised you amazingly high. So human. And when he laid his eyes on the pages, he felt understood, somehow.

When it became obvious that nobody would ever care like he did about those precious verses, the angel actually got over it quite quickly. The blindness of the world was “absolute poppycock!”, but he still, in an almost selfish way which was nothing like him, enjoyed having those words just for himself. It was talking to him, only him. It was his poet. The only sadness was his regret of not discovering him soon enough. By that time, he surely had died, still in the dark.

But when he thought of the words on their own, outside of the poet, he sometimes hated himself for reading them. For reading them over and over again, because they made him think not quite straight. Think of things that lurked in the back of his mind, for so long that he had come to ignore them. It was all so well-done, but the words pushed the thoughts forward, and they came crashing with more bittersweet grip than ever. It was Crowley. It had always been, hasn't it. It would always be about him. All of the angel’s human side, which grew bigger through the centuries, was getting out the most when he saw _Him_, with all the sneaky implications and accomplished temptations that a demon would implant in a man’s mind.

And one night of march 1999, when Crowley came back to the bookshop and they were already a bit tipsy, he showed it to him. The poems. The demon sit with his legs crossed at the other end of the room, his arms stretched, almost taking the whole couch. Aziraphale looked away not to look too much, and heard his voice like he was an outsider, watching the two of them; “the two of us”, he thought; from afar.

_I fell once now I’m falling again_  
_ And I always wished to ask_  
_ Did you ever think of me like that?_

_Making a fool of myself every time_  
_ When the words are about to come out I breath out a long sigh_  
_ I smile_

On those words he smiled, not even trying to repress any of it, but then the sudden realisation of what he had just done, of what he had implied without the thought even crossing his mind in that moment; though it crossed it all the time; made him blush.

\- Are you really trying to recite some poetry, angel ? I mean like…

“What do you mean”, thought Aziraphale, as Crowley gathered his senses. They were very drunk at this point, maybe even the drunkest they had been with each other, though the angel seemed to believe that every time. Maybe it was because he felt so much more vulnerable, always on the edge of saying something he shouldn't.

_And wanting things I shouldn’t, and wanting things I can’t have_

Tracing down Crowley’s thin legs, bones sticking out everywhere, his narrow shoulders, his sharp jawline. Red, burning hair. Yellow, and so intense, eyes. He thought this described the situation quite perfectly. And Crowley dived right back into his usual intoxicated babbling.

\- I mean, maybe we’re not… that drunk yet. We don’t have the Reading-poetry-to-each-other-on-Tuesday-nights sort of relationship anyway, right?

_Right._ Not ever again, thought Aziraphale. But he still silently read the poem, tasting the words like he tasted literature, and food, and all the human world; mostly in his mind, because he couldn’t really express it. It was beyond his celestial experience, and beyond the understanding of his ethereal, or occult for that matter, peers. With the exception of Crowley, though apparently not on every front.

_I fell once now I’m falling again_  
_ And I always wished to ask_  
_ Did you ever think of me like that?_

_Making a fool of myself every time_  
_ When the words are about to come out I breath out a long sigh_  
_ I smile_

_If you ever notice I think I might die_  
_ Maybe I want to die if it is by your side_

_I feel like I’m slipping through_  
_ The hole in my soul sucks me in_  
_ But I see your light_

_Someday I shall let myself fly_  
_ You’ll have to let me first_

_I would let you, I would let you._ What if our soulmate is from another time? What if we don’t have soulmates at all? What if angels can fall in love? So many questions, and no answers, because God, in her almighty greatness, was pretty dry on the matter. Pretty silent. And silence was something that Aziraphale loved, and that Crowley hated. And now the angel was filling the silence for that very reason.

\- You want more wine? Or some scotch, I actually have…  
\- No, angel. You can’t… I mean… Argh, I don’t know.

If only Aziraphale knew the thoughts racing through Crowley’s head, the fear rushing in and closing his throat; and he was on the edge of saying _really crazy things_, of talking _too much_. The poem. That poem. It was the first time he had heard those words out loud, the first time he, consciously, thought about them in more than a century. He bit his lips not to beg for more, longing to hear his words in the angel’s mouth, like the fulfillment of some silly fantasy. Maybe it was even better than those sillier human things which, without warning, crossed his mind, flashes and images, Aziraphale’s face looking down at him like some dream as his heart raced up. Gone in a snap, leaving only bitterness in his mouth. Always when he was trying to avoid them; that was when they came the most. Because he had written the poems. He had felt it all, the sensations so vivid he had to write them down, to get some sort of distance so he could breathe again.

Like that were born the poems, more true than anything he had done or said. Aziraphale never should have known they even existed; after that night, Crowley often wondered how he could have got hold of them. It felt like some wicked trick from God herself; same as when she decided to link him to Aziraphale, letting his feelings take root in the deepest grounds of his soul. It was now as natural, as much of a fact, as anything else. The sky was blue, he was fallen, his eyes were yellow and he loved Aziraphale. He had been damned twice.

______________________________________________________________________________

So much had happened since; the turn of the century seemed a distant memory and the world had took a sort of radical turn; its shape was different, and would never quite be the same. Though some things never change, and Crowley and Aziraphale remained. A fair amount of words unsaid, of feelings too deep to fathom, but always this camaraderie, a connection so fulfilling that they sometimes both forgot about those words and those feelings.

They had all the time in the world, literally. But the recent apocalypse-related events made them see things more clearly; it was when they realised they were wrong, when they faced the very real possibility, the one they never dared consider, that it could all end like it had begun, earth as well as that undefinable push which draw them to the other, that something broke in the both of them. They both felt it; they were different, and for the first time exactly the same. It was in the futile babbling under the crude light of the bus ride, and then in the silence that crept on them like never before, only sprinkled with banalities up until that moment at Crowley’s place, when he stood up to get another bottle of wine. They surely would not sleep tonight.

\- What are you doing?

There was an irrational panic in Aziraphale’s voice, as if he feared the demon might just turn around and disappear. And Crowley stopped dead in his tracks, stayed with his back turned for a moment. It took a instant before he understood what was happening, why his whole self seemed to be burning down, and why his fingers were suddenly numb but also incredibly sensitive, if that was at all possible. Aziraphale had reached for his hand, and Crowley looked at their hands; the both of them, together; amazed, when he turned around to face the angel. His angel. Neither of them meant to show the full effect of this brief touch, though both were incapable of letting go of the other, and for a while, of saying something, anything.

\- Don’t go.

The words were uttered, in a desperate whisper, and Crowley wondered for a second if it was him or Aziraphale who had finally said the obvious, even though he saw the angel’s lips trace the sounds. And it was as though every syllable came crashing on Crowley’s skin, like a reminder of all he had missed, for years, decades and centuries. Millennia. He would have sworn, on heaven or on hell, that Aziraphale was thinking about it too; maybe tomorrow they would both be sent right back to where they came from; oblivion. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. But the angel certainly couldn’t understand the extent of what that meant to Crowley; that meant he would never know, would die not knowing. Could he?

\- Say something.

Why did he have to talk, why couldn’t they just stay like this; because he knew if he started talking then he would never stop, and say things he would regret. Silly, Aziraphale-like things. “Flashes of love”, he thought. Better not think about it too much.

\- Say what?

Crowley looked down at their hands and saw their fingers intertwined, not knowing how it had happened, and he saw himself take Aziraphale’s other hand, holding it in the same way. He had kept the glasses, thinking it would go unnoticed, and was now grateful to have them; at least the angel wouldn’t see the glint in them, when they wandered around, everywhere he had never dare looking.

\- Crowley… I…

He backed down, his back almost on the wall; only now he noted the infinitely small distance that had separated them all this time. He raised his hands; it looked like a slightly angry gesture though it was the only thing Crowley was able to do in that moment, and it only meant that he was clueless, and lost, and much more vulnerable than he wished to be. He was standing there, without any idea of what would happen next, if the angel would just run out of the door, if he should leave. Cheeks burning, blushing like a five-years old who just got caught, he managed to get out some words, and immediately regretted getting that far on risky grounds.

\- Still going too fast for you, angel?

And the last word was almost whispered, because it was the one that mattered the most, and he didn’t want Aziraphale to hear his voice break, to know just a piece of how hurt he felt; now he could understand the crazy things a man did when pushed away, when denied the love they longed for.

\- What… what are you saying? You know I don’t… I never…  
\- You don’t feel anything? You didn’t _feel_ something just now? This is not… easy for me, angel. Just talk to me… please. We can work this out together, like always.  
\- We just…

Crowley’s face was crumbling down, and it spread such pain in Aziraphale’s chest, itching, burning his fingertips, coming and going like insidious waves, washing him away everytime. And he knew his face was the same, and he couldn’t bring himself to say anything significant. He was the one that had taken Crowley’s hand, the one who spoke first. But now it was as if he was afraid of his own boldness. He was on the edge of this impossible cliff; his whole self telling him to jump, to never look behind. Since there was this doubt, this fear which remained, its voice convincing him not to dive in, but not enough to totally push him away. He needed to think, to think clearly. He turned around, and leaned on the table, letting a hand wander across its surface. And Crowley thought, even when lost in all his grief and slight madness, that it was such an Aziraphale-thing to do.

_Rip off my wings and never let me fly_  
_ And keep me here_  
_ Take me_  
_ Put me_  
_ I want you_  
_ And I want to be disposed of_  
_ By you, all the time_

He startled; they both did, at the words spoken so clearly, so loud, with such conviction. And Crowley kept on, Aziraphale still turning his back on him; the pain had taken down the last barriers, teared apart the walls. They maybe were, afterall, the reading-poetry-to-each-other type.

_Because it is in the way you bite your lower lip when you’re scared_  
_ In the way the wind ruffles your pale hair_  
_ In the way you laugh when you don’t know what to do_  
_ And when you say silly things and I act like it’s funny but I can’t catch my breath_

_Never thought I would know how that felt_  
_ To miss the air in my lungs_  
_ I seem to only need it when you’re around_

_And when you leave_  
_ When you leave I remember every moment_  
_ Even when I want to forget_  
_ And think that it could be the last time_  
_ Please tell me it won’t ever be the last time_

_Please talk to me_  
_ Say it_  
_ Say what you mean and ask me what I mean and scratch me until I tell you_  
_ I want to tell you_

The space around them seemed to retract at every breath they took, every pause in between Crowley’s words, _His_ words, sending shivers down Aziraphale’s spine; the revelation did not hit him like it should, but instead slowly crawled through his mind until it became obvious, an ever-present truth that was only waiting for the right moment to emerge. It had been him, all this time. Anthony J. Crowley. _His_ poet. He turned around, not quite sure what to say yet; nothing seemed appropriate, or enough, after such a declaration. He walked up to Crowley, and gently removed his glasses, while Crowley thought the angel must have heard his heart tightening in his chest, because it rang so loud in his whole body, his whole soul.

\- Please don’t ever keep those on with me. When we’re alone. I want to see your eyes.  
\- I thought you wouldn’t notice.

And Aziraphale raised his eyebrows with a half-smile, meaning that of course he had noticed, this time and all the other times before. Also meaning that there would be many other times, beyond tomorrow. Meaning there was hope.

Silence fell upon them again, though not it was the same than before; it was the intimate silence of two people, two beings who didn’t need words. They only needed their eyes and their bodies, and it was the opposite of a spiritual, of a celestial feeling. Neither of them knew what they were doing, and before they could stop and think, Crowley had his back against the wall, his head a bit thrown back, eyes shut; his angel took a few seconds to look at him, his breath already falling on his demon’s lips, and his hands cupping his face. Then he leaned in and they kissed, not moving at first. The soft sound which escaped Crowley’s lips when their tongues touched made Aziraphale move closer; there was something of a fire igniting when he pushed his hips against the demon’s, their breath growing heavier and the words they tried to articulate evaporating every time their lips touched after a second parting. Crowley reached for Aziraphale’s face as they both held on to the other, almost in fear of letting go, of losing a second. It was slow and intoxicating and gentle but oh so desperate, because there was no one in the universe who had waited so long, who knew how longing, true longing, felt. For everyone else, it was ineffable.

\- Do you want to…  
\- Yes.

Crowley didn’t need more, because he knew what it meant, and they were on their way to the bedroom, leaning on every wall and every door frame. Aziraphale had miraculously unbuttoned most of the demon’s shirt, and let his mouth wander to his neck, pressing his teeth into the sweet and delicate skin above his collarbone, tracing the relief of his throat with his lips, and his jawline, and then on Crowley’s mouth again. Aziraphale was, thought Crowley, surprisingly quiet, as himself couldn’t help but make a myriad of little amazed sounds, moans and gasps; he wasn’t able to comprehend this was, indeed, all real, and was sent to ecstasy every time he opened his eyes and saw that it was Aziraphale kissing him, against him, his hands everywhere on him. Crowley thought if this went on for another second he might go insane, but it did went on and he stayed stuck to the ground, though starting to take off the angel’s clothes. Each piece he removed, and there were many of them, was miracled into his closet, without a wrinkle.

\- Did you just?  
\- Save your jacket, and your waistcoat, and all the other things you wear, which I usually find quite suiting on you but that in that moment only seem incredibly annoying? Yes.  
\- You like them?  
\- That wasn’t the point, but…

Aziraphale’s lips on his were enough to make Crowley lose his train of thoughts, and forget everything else, for that matter. And Crowley’s shirt was off, and his belt, and they were on the bed, an angel and a demon, and it was surreal and kind of crazy, and kind of funny and they smiled.

\- You really want this?  
\- Yes. You do too, right?  
\- Yes.

They were running their hands across the other’s chest, and Aziraphale moaned, for the first time, when Crowley kissed his earlobe, then moving to his neck to bite down on the skin he had wanted to see, to touch for so long. There was just the two of them now, sealed together, and no barriers, physical or spiritual, no clothes and no sides, and no black and white; nothing in between their bodies which had never felt so carnal, so real. The emotion arising with their nakedness had nothing and everything to do with prudishness; something deep crashing down, again, as they intertwined their souls as much as their bodies. As much as their lives, which, really, already were.

\- I want you. Inside.

Those four words seemed to resonate in the room, drawing a new and quite lovely expression on Aziraphale’s face, and Crowley was sure for a second he had only thought it, and didn’t even regret it when he realised he hadn’t. It was true, and there was nothing to be afraid, nothing to fear, or to regret. Nothing not to love, because it was all this was. Because they were all and nothing, like all the lovers of the world; a micro universe of their own, containing their love and their love only, where him and Aziraphale were the only things that mattered. Though also part of an infinite whole, of a greater plan Crowley didn’t even despite, afterall. If it had brought them together.

\- You know, I’ve never did this before. Or anything like it, really.

They both chuckled; Crowley felt his heart agreeably crush when Aziraphale spoke, feeling so special, so worthless but so proud.

\- I don’t care. We’ll go slowly. I’ll… guide you through it.  
\- Alright then.

Aziraphale had now savagely turned him over to be on top, with a smug smile on his lips; Crowley just felt breathless, and nervous like he had never been, but he was also burning on every end, feeling a sort of burst that he thought could never totally go away, not after this. Violent but comfortably warm, it spread like wildfire through his veins and he wondered if Aziraphale could feel it through his skin.

\- You… did this before?  
\- Not really.  
\- What do you mean not really?

The angel pushed himself back a bit, eyes puzzled and lips parted in surprise. Crowley felt so ashamed, so sorry for those two times he had engaged in such stuff; not very enthusiastic, but desperate to try and forget about his own self. One woman and one man; neither had seen through him, they were all so meaningless compared to this and he thought mentioning them might break the spell that had been cast tonight, maybe even destroy it all. He was wrong.

\- You know what? I don’t care. I’m with you now.  
\- Mghbnmm…

The kisses landing on him, on all of him, were healing the wounds long-open, embracing the scars and erasing them one by one; it prevented the demon to engage in any further talking. He opened his eyes to look at his angel, with his hair bouncing all around his face, his soft and plumpy cheeks, his puppy-like eyes and all this halo of sweetness, in all and every meaning of the word, floating around him. Around them, now.

Aziraphale stopped for a second and did the same, ran a wandering hand through Crowley’s messy hair, thumb going down his jawline with genuine admiration. It was at that moment that both of their breaths were taken away, and they stared into each other’s eyes all the while it was happening, almost daring the other to look away. It didn’t need words, it didn’t need anything other than their stare to be understood, and the rush, that rush filled both of them; that feeling when you are finally complete, the heart-breaking, universe-shadowing thought hitting Crowley with all of its unbearable truthfulness, and all the crazy consequences; it was Aziraphale inside him, it was him under Aziraphale’s deepest touch, needles in his souls rather than in his body; trying to regain the bit of self-control he had left. In vain.

\- I thought you didn’t know… how.  
\- Well… books do really teach you some… interesting things.  
\- Oh, you naughty… angel.

The adorable smirk on Crowley’s face was enough to make Aziraphale push further, without even noticing, craving for more, as much as Aziraphale’s smile had made Crowley long for the same thing.

\- There is no one but you

Feeling Crowley speaking more than he actually heard him, Aziraphale managed to recover the little consciousness he had; only to try and remember it, all of it, and especially Crowley’s words; his words, he couldn’t quite believe it yet; breaking the silence in between their long sighs and gasps and moans, which they were now both eagerly engaging in. His breathy voice, his eyes half-shut even though he tried to keep them open, and the feeling of being with him, in so many ways, closer than ever before; it was all so precious, so crucial. In this instant they were, without speaking a word about it, feeling exactly the same; overwhelmed, vulnerable though not scared of it. They were only scared of one thing now; losing this, all of it when it had just bloomed before their eyes, and they didn’t even completely understand it then. They wanted a chance to do this, properly, to live it and taste it in every way possible. Hopefully, it would never be taken away.

\- And wanting things I shouldn’t, and wanting things I can’t have... Please... tell me it won’t ever be the last time.  
\- It won’t. I love you.  
\- I… love you. Love you, love you, love you.

Relieved from the heavy power of the words, finally, and truthfully, spoken, in just the right moment, Crowley crumbled down again. Everytime you think you’re too low ever to fall but then you fall and you ache but this time it was a good ache and Crowley loved everything about it, even the hurt that sometimes spread into his spine, even the stupidest things he was saying in between real, and important, things. Even when he had an instant of clear sight, when he could see he was actually reciting poetry, repressing a laugh at how ridiculously sweet he was being for a demon, and surprised he could almost form coherent thoughts while having Aziraphale all over him; above, under, within.

\- I’m falling again… Maybe I want to…

Aziraphale felt like all the truths of the world were being told to him, like everything now made sense, as if before it was an incomprehensible mess. An ineffable mess. Like they were. He forgot how to breathe when Crowley grasped his hair, and he softly laughed with him when their heads hit because Aziraphale was letting himself fall unto his demon, and Crowley was tilting his head up to look at his angel. He gasped when Crowley pulled him closer, and buried his mouth into the crease of his shoulder.

\- Slipping through, your light… Take me. I…

The wave hit them both at the same time, like some impossible, divine intervention they did not comprehend of cared about, because when they moved one last time, when their hips hit and folded into the other’s once again, Crowley sank his hand in Aziraphale’s hair, pulling at small curls falling on his forehead, and let it wander across his angel’s face, feeling the curve of his nose and the holes of his eyes and the softness of his lips all with his eyes tightly closed, sending a million shivers down Aziraphale’s spine, like all of this wasn’t enough.

\- Aziraphale…

They were suddenly wrapped in the dark, a sort of luminous dark that carried some crazy energy, power flowing around them, filling them with such fulfillment until they realised they were both back in the room, on the bed, washed over by reality, by what had just happened. But then Crowley realised he was on top of Aziraphale; he blinked a few times before even considering that he wasn't hallucinating, because it was him, under, there. He was staring at his own self, and when he looked down at his hands they weren't even his hands. He was…

\- You’re me! I mean, we…  
\- Yeah… looks like that.  
\- How is it even possible? What does it mean?  
\- You know what? Right fucking now, I don’t give a…

Aziraphale rushed on Crowley’s lips, before hearing what he had to say, because he knew; and they kissed like never before, with such want that it seemed they were back at the starting point, and it was amazingly intense and bizarre and perfect.

_I couldn’t think of a better moment_  
_ Had never grasped so hard to a feeling_  
_ Desperately_  
_ Oh desperately yours_

_Within, all is burning_  
_ And skin is such an abstract word_  
_ That you can’t feel until it tightens and slips under the touch_

_It was you I had waited for_  
_ And I knew it before I could think it_  
_ Of all the ways you ever made me feel I knew this would be the one_  
_ An ultimate sound racing through my ears as you stayed there for one last second_  
_ So many other seconds to come_

_It makes me shiver before it’s even done_  
_ Because I overthink all of this even when I can’t think anything_  
_ Anything else than yes, else than you_

_There is no one else but you_  
_ How could I ever forget_  
_ How could this go away_  
_ Blood turns to water and fire to ashes in the tray_  
_ No need for pain_

_The spell unbroken_  
_ Wings healed_  
_ All of me seen_

_I love you, love you, love you._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!¨Please take a tiny bit of your precious time to leave kudos and especially comments, so that I can gather bits of motivation and actually continue writing!!


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